


Proving grounds

by BlushLouise



Category: The Transformers (IDW Generation One), Transformers - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Eventual Smut, Hook-Up, M/M, No Cybertronian Civil War, Secret Solenoid, Sticky Sexual Interfacing, sane Pharma
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-01
Updated: 2021-01-01
Packaged: 2021-03-10 22:47:39
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,072
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28484859
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BlushLouise/pseuds/BlushLouise
Summary: Pharma has faith in his own skills. He's a great medic and knows it, and if everyone else needs time to be convinced that's their problem, not his.But there is someone, it turns out, who doesn't need convincing at all. And he might be more fun than Pharma had anticipated.
Relationships: Pharma/Ratchet (Transformers)
Comments: 12
Kudos: 37
Collections: Secret Solenoid '20-'21





	Proving grounds

**Author's Note:**

> Secret Solenoid gift for Surveille on Tumblr! Hope you like :D

Pharma hates new postings. Hates moving to new cities, figuring everything out, pretending like he knows his way around and how everything works while trying to find his bearings.

Actually doing his job is second nature in comparison. Being arrogant about it is a guarantee.

So he saunters into the hospital he’s supposed to help run, wings wide, head high, like he already controls the place. Like they can’t touch him.

They can’t. He won’t let them.

“Can I help you?” the mech at the front desk asks, optics tracking Pharma’s wings. He twitches them once, for good measure, and the mech flinches. Typical.

“I believe I’m expected,” he says smoothly. “I’m the new chief surgeon for the reconstructive surgery department.”

“You’re Pharma,” the mech realizes, and it’s gratifying how he’s suddenly paying attention to what Pharma’s actually saying. “Yes, you’re expected. I have your information package here.” He slides over a datapad. “If you’d head up to the fourth floor, I believe they’re waiting for you.”

Pharma nods and takes the pad, then walks away from the desk without another word.

The view from the fourth floor isn’t spectacular, not like he’s used to, but there’s potential. His office, when someone finally takes him there, has a balcony. The room is not too big, smaller than the one he had before, but the easy access point makes up for what it lacks in size. The other medics are as he expected them to be, too – respectful because they have to be, sneering at him when they think he isn’t looking.

He’ll have to prove himself. Luckily, he’s good at that.

Reconstructive surgery is not easy. Pharma would never go for something that was easy. He’s skilled and he knows it, he knows he’s one of the best if not the best surgeon on Cybertron right now. And this department’s testing his skills to the max. It doesn’t take long for word of his abilities to precede him.

Of course, that also means that word about his frame-type precedes him.

Part of him wants to shout at them, spread his wings wide and force them to look at him, get it through to them that he’s a _forged medic_. Forged. Not a warbuild, not a clone. Make them understand that he’s as entitled to his place here as any of them. As all of them. More than most of them, to be honest. But he doesn’t. He’s learned his lesson about being loud.

Arrogance, he can get away with. Hostility is another matter. If he’s not at least a little careful, they’ll start seeing him as the warbuild he’s not. If he’s not at least a little careful…

Well. As already stated, he hates new postings.

As also stated, he’s good at what he does. And they'll have to concede that eventually.

It will just take a while, that’s all. In the meantime, Pharma does his job.

He performs surgeries way more advanced than the department has seen before. He works on racers who’ve driven themselves to pieces – literally. He replaces limbs that have been eaten away by acid. He rebuilds broken spark chambers, fuel pumps, tanks. He transplants, rewires, recreates. And then at the end of each long day, he goes back to his empty apartment, to his empty berth, talks to absolutely no one, and recharges.

Repeat ad infinitum.

He tries to tell himself that he’s satisfied. And work-wise, he is. Everything else…

Well. Everything can be tolerated.

Pharma doesn’t socialize with his colleagues. Not by choice. He sees quite enough of them during duty hours, thanks, he doesn’t need to see them outside of work as well.

But there are some occasions even he can’t get out of. Such as the annual ball slash fundraiser slash aft-kissing contest that everyone has to attend, on threat of termination.

Well, not literal termination.

Or maybe. Maybe literal termination.

So Pharma gets himself polished up to a decent shine, and prepares for a night of stupidity and intolerance the likes of which he can barely coexist with at the best of times. At least he won’t have to stay all night.

The event is, at first glance – and second, and third – rather bland. Standard for this kind of thing. Pharma plucks a flute of something off a passing waiter’s tray, and pretends to mingle.

It doesn’t take him long to get so frustrated with the high-and-mighties whose afts he has to suck up to that he’ll lose his temper and risk his job if he has to talk to another one of them. He retreats to a corner, under guise of getting a refill, and just… stays there.

Not hiding. Of course not. Arrogantly surveying the room. Unapproachable.

At least that was the intention. Someone clearly didn’t get the memo.

“Something tells me you’re about as happy to be here as I am.”

Pharma turns, sneer already in place. It fades on his face fairly fast when he sees the mech who’s dared to disturb him. Bright optics, decently shiny plating, strong lines, a small smile on his face. Primus.

“You’re Pharma, right?” the mech asks. “Chief Reconstructive?”

“I am,” Pharma manages to reply. He doesn’t bother fighting the smirk he can feel blooming on his face.

The stranger holds out his hand. “I’m Ratchet. Chief Trauma.”

Ratchet. Pharma’s heard the name. Mostly along with a string of curses, or from some terrified resident who’s screwed up one time too many. Ratchet is supposedly ornery, mean, very skilled, takes no slag, has more talent than he knows what to do with, is ridiculously hard to get along with, a downright pain in the aft.

Ratchet, it turns out, is also really attractive.

And it’s not like Pharma’s one to judge who’s difficult to get along with, anyway. He’s heard pretty much exactly the same things about himself, after all.

“Ratchet,” he echoes, taking the offered hand. “Not a fan of this kind of event?”

“I’d rather spend a night flushing systems than having to deal with all this aft-kissing,” Ratchet says, with all the frank honesty Pharma expects from someone with his reputation. “Waste of my slagging time. Yours, too.” He takes the flute of something straight out of Pharma’s hand and downs half of it. “At least the refreshments are decent. If needlessly flaunting.”

“They’re the only reason I bother coming,” Pharma agrees. He pulls a face. “Well, that, and I hate relocating. And I’m already slagging them off just by existing, so I really shouldn’t push my luck.”

“I’ve heard some of that.” Ratchet chuckles, and it makes something in Pharma’s frame heat up and clench tight. “That we have a warbuild heading Reconstructive.” He snorts. “I fear for this generation of medics if they can’t tell you apart from a warbuild.”

Pharma couldn’t agree more. “They don’t look too closely.” He takes his flute back, empties it. “All they see is a pair of wings.”

“Well. Can’t really blame them.” Ratchet’s optics trace the angles of Pharma’s wings, the width of them. “The wings are really something.”

Pharma can’t resist. He twitches his wings, watches Ratchet’s optics deepen in color.

The evening suddenly seems much more promising.

“Want to get out of here?” he asks, adding a purr to his voice for good measure.

“Slag yes,” Ratchet replies. “Whatever you want.”

‘Whatever you want’ turns out to be Ratchet’s apartment, a modest but sizeable space halfway up one of the better buildings in one of the nicer neighborhoods. ‘Whatever you want’ turns out to be Pharma on his knees on Ratchet’s berth, with Ratchet himself plastered up against his back and worshipping his wings. ‘Whatever you want’ is Pharma overloading from wing-touch alone, trembling under Ratchet’s skilled fingers.

“Tell me,” Ratchet murmurs as he licks a broad stripe up the side of Pharma’s throat. “Early shift tomorrow?”

“I’m off-duty tomorrow,” Pharma gasps. He’s losing control much faster under Ratchet’s touch than he’d ever expected. Ratchet really seems to know what he’s doing. “What – oh, Primus – did you have in mind?”

“I want to take you apart.” Ratchet pushes Pharma’s upper body forward until he’s face-down on the berth, still on his knees with his aft in the air. A hand cups Pharma’s interface panel, teasing it open. “Figure out how much you can take. Find all those spots that make you tremble under me.”

Looks like Pharma’s not the only one who’s got a bit of an arrogant attitude. But if the similarities don’t end there, and Ratchet also has the skills to actually back up his claims…

Well, Pharma might be in for one of the best nights of his life. They both might be.

Pharma can’t keep back the groan as Ratchet puts his tongue to good use right where Pharma wants it most. He’s skilled with it, there’s no doubt about that. Pharma can feel himself loosening up, heating up again under Ratchet’s attention.

He almost whines in complaint when Ratchet pulls away to lean over his back.

He does moan when Ratchet sinks into him, broad spike forcing his valve to spread wide. It feels modded, both wider and with more embellishment than a regular spike, little nubs matching up perfectly with the charge receptors in Pharma’s valve. And Primus, does Ratchet know how to use his equipment.

But Pharma does too. And Ratchet’s not the only one who’s invested in his own pleasure. Pharma engages one of his valve mods, creating rippling pressure up and down Ratchet’s spike, relishing the groan and the sudden weight on his back.

It becomes a bit of a competition, though the best one Pharma’s ever participated in. For every trick Pharma pulls, Ratchet counters with something even more delicious.

In the end, they go over together. Pharma collapses onto the berth with Ratchet as a hot mess on top of him.

“Slag,” Ratchet pants, venting hot air against Pharma’s plating. “I can tell you’re going to be _fun_.”

On the surface, nothing much changes. Pharma keeps proving himself, increasing his reputation as one of the most skilled medics alive. His colleagues stay wary of him, watching his wings more than his face. Whining about him behind his back and ingratiating themselves to him however they can.

But below the surface, everything’s different. And that might be why Pharma’s enjoying himself so much.

Of course, he blames Ratchet. And Ratchet takes pride in it, slagger that he is. It fuels the unofficial contest that’s sprung up between them, making them both push harder, keeping them trying to outdo each other.

If Ratchet pulls off a complicated surgery, Pharma immediately has to manage something even more difficult. If a procedure Pharma has come up with is discussed in a scientific article, Ratchet instantly pitches three new cutting-edge suggestions for procedures that no one has done before.

If Pharma pulls a double-shift, so does Ratchet. If Ratchet volunteers for something, so does Pharma.

Naturally this means that they keep running into each other. Word of their shouting matches spreads faster than the rumors of Pharma’s alt mode did when he first arrived. It gets heated, public, often escalates to the point where they’re screaming at each other while terrified residents and junior medics try to pass them in the hallways without getting close enough to risk being noticed.

The fragging sessions after, in various storage closets, empty rooms, unused ISO units or anywhere else they can hide away, are no less magnificent. Pharma’s lost count of the amount of times he’s had to walk back to Reconstructive still trembling from multiple overloads, barely able to keep upright.

At least no one seems to suspect that their shouting matches are practically foreplay at this point. Pharma’s sure he would have heard those particular rumors if someone had picked up on that. And he would probably already have been not-so-politely asked to leave his position if that were the case.

Extra incentive for Pharma to be careful. He’s having far too much fun to risk being sent off to a new posting. Besides, he likes this job.

He even likes Ratchet. Possibly more than the job, too.

It’s worth staying, for that. To see where things go. Where they go. How far they can get together.

Pharma has an inkling that it’s pretty damn far. And judging by Ratchet’s smirk, so does he.

This could be interesting. More importantly, this could be _good_.


End file.
